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They’ve been dating for a little over six months, and sometimes, it still sneaks up on Tony. A calm, contented feeling will steal up from under him, spreading outward from his belly, and it always takes him a second to identify. It’s something different. He knows what happiness is, however fucked up his life has been. He knows how to have a good time, how to laugh loud and long, how to speed along mountain roads with the roof down (or, more recently, how to push the limits of the suit until he feels like a comet, rapturous and uncontainable). This is something else, something that settles like the weight of the suit on his shoulders.
One night, they’re in bed together, in the soft warm space just before sleep. Tony reaches out and traces his fingertips across whatever patch of skin he can reach - chin to chest to stomach. Steve looks back at him, simple happiness in his baby-blue eyes, and Tony feels the wind rushing through his ears, gravity’s hold on him loosening. He’s always been a creator above all else, and when his hands, his mouth, his words, make Steve’s face light up with joy - it pulls something deep within him, knowing he caused that feeling. Action, reaction. More reaction.
“I love you,” he whispers, as easy as falling.
“I love you,” Steve replies, and just like that, he’s caught.
He knows it shows on his face, because Steve smiles, wide and bright, pale light from the arc reactor shining across his face. He’s the most beautiful thing Tony has ever held.
“Being with you feels like home,” he murmurs, cracked open, inescapably honest.
“You built this home for us,” Steve says, and Tony doesn’t know what to do with such open devotion.
*
Clint is the only one in the communal kitchen when Tony appears sometime after nine. He nods a greeting from his perch on a barstool at the kitchen island, working his way through a giant bowl of what looks like a random assortment of cereals (probably with a ridiculous amount of sugar). He pauses to gulp from a chipped mug of coffee (definitely with a ridiculous amount of sugar). It has a little cartoon Iron Man on it, and in cheerful bubble lettering the tiny Tony proclaims “YOU’RE A STAR-K!”
Tony has long given up on calling Clint out for his offensive crockery. He grabs a mug of his own and fills it with coffee, downs it in one, then pours another before sauntering over to stand next to the archer.
“Morning,” he says.
“It sure is,” Clint replies, twirling the spoon around his fingers. “Where’s Cap?”
Tony waves a hand, gesturing nowhere in particular. “Out. Running, probably, or something equally awful. You know him, up and at ‘em, early Cap gets the Hydra.”
Clint grimaces. “No Hydra today please,” he whines. “I still haven’t forgiven them for what they did to my bow last time.”
Tony snorts. “Clint, it’s fine. I fixed it.”
“She hasn’t been the same since,” he mutters darkly. He takes another comically large spoonful of cereal, scowling.
“Anyway,” Tony says, sensing the danger in letting Clint dwell on the poor treatment of his precious baby.
“Anyway,” Clint agrees, abandoning his murderous thoughts towards those who would dare mess with his bow. “What’s eating you? Normally you just walk in like a zombie, grab coffee, then vanish again.”
Tony rolls his eyes. “I have priorities, Barton.”
“Aw, am I a priority today? Be still my beating heart!” Clint puts his hands under his chin, batting his eyelashes.
Tony lets out a surprised laugh. “Clint, you are number one on my list, every single day.”
“Aha, but your list for what? ” he points a finger at him, then jabs Tony in the chest, neatly avoiding the arc reactor. “Now come on, what’s bugging you?”
“Hey!” Tony half dodges, more as a protest than a serious attempt. Clint raises his eyebrows, continuing to munch his cereal. “Okay, I just had a thing I wanted to ask. It’s not a big deal, honestly it doesn’t even matter so I’ll probably just…” he trails off, and Clint points the spoon at him. It’s not quite threatening, but it gets his point across.
“Do you, uh -” he rubs at his chin, just under his goatee. “Do you - like living here?”
Clint tilts his head in bewilderment. “Uh, yeah dude. You’re a billionaire, the tower is full of super-cool tech, all the food I can eat, and I don’t pay rent. It’s a pretty sweet deal.”
Tony nods, staring into his coffee cup. When he doesn’t reply, Clint reaches out and claps a hand on his shoulder.
“Tony,” he says, waiting until the billionaire looks him in the eyes. “I literally grew up in a circus. I’m pretty sure I was born in an actual barn. This is the equivalent of a magical fairytale castle for me.” He shrugs and downs the last of his coffee. “Also, you’re not in the Russian mob, which makes you a way better landlord than at my last place.”
Tony can’t help but grin. “This is where I reveal my secret mafia connections. Italian though, obviously, gotta have some class.”
“Nah, that would be way too cliche,” Clint smirks. He hops down from the barstool and takes his dishes over to the dishwasher, pushing it closed again with his hip once he’s set them inside. “If you’re thinking of kicking us out, Stark, you’re gonna have to step up your game. I could live in the vents for at least three months before you even knew.”
“JARVIS would easily -”
“JARVIS loves me,” Clint raised his hands towards the ceiling, like he was waiting for the AI to high-five him. “He’d never narc on me.”
Tony notes JARVIS’ suspicious lack of response before he replies, “Well, let's hope we don’t have to find out, and you don’t get your heart broken by my AI.”
“You just don’t understand our complex relationship,” Clint declares, heading out of the kitchen.
“You’re as complex as a brick to the head,” Tony calls after him.
Clint shoots him with finger guns, except using his middle fingers, because he’s approximately twelve years old.
*
It’s not like he intends on going round the whole team, but when he’s done with his coffee and inhaled a bag of dried fruit and nuts (Steve is big on breakfast, but Steve isn’t here to make him something delicious, so there), he decides to call on Bruce before heading to the workshop. It’s en route, and it’s not like he needs an excuse to see his partner in scientific crime - literally, some of the stuff they get up to is definitely illegal.
Bruce is, as ever, looking disheveled, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up carelessly past his elbows, hair in ruffled waves. Tony knows from experience that Bruce will have run his hands through it whilst running numbers and waiting on results from experiments, as if he could reach in with his fingers and pull the answers from his unwilling brain. If sufficiently tired - post-Hulk, for example - Bruce can tolerate Tony threading his fingers through the salt-and-pepper curls, will lean his head on Tony’s shoulder and let himself be looked after for a while. It makes Tony feel a warm sense of triumph, to have gained the trust of the most dangerous person in any room. To allow Bruce to let his guard down, just a little.
Usually, though, they function through sarcasm and jabs, pointed comments about each other’s wellbeing, and a sacred agreement not to call each other a hypocrite. Tony likes to think they balance each other out. Pepper had at first appreciated that someone other than her got to drag Tony away from the workshop sometimes; but she had quickly realised that Bruce wasn’t necessarily a reliable intervention method. He was just as likely to get lost in his work as Tony, and generally prioritised science over irritating things like ‘health and wellbeing’. Bruce has made it abundantly clear that he’s not that kind of doctor, if the doctor you want is anything other than one of biology, or chemistry, or chemical biology, or biological chemistry. Or gamma radiation. Honestly, what does the man even do with that many PhDs.
So when Tony enters the lab, Bruce lifts a granola bar aloft and yells “Breakfast!”, without looking away from the whiteboard he’s writing a string of numbers on.
“Acknowledged, you’ve been a good boy today.” Tony saunters in, looking at the holoscreens open around the lab with mild curiosity. It’s never going to be his passion, Bruce’s research, but a man can dabble.
“I’m always a good boy,” Bruce mutters, still writing a seemingly endless series of numbers in erasable marker. He squints over the top of his glasses, acknowledging Tony with a vague nod.
“Numbers not obeying you, Brucie-bear?”
Bruce sighs, finally breaking his staring contest with the board. He puts the marker down on the table, and casts around for the lid, spinning in a slow circle, before seemingly giving up and leaving the pen to dry out.
“Yeah, I can’t get the units to break down - maybe I need a break.” He stretches his arms out, groaning. “It’s been a long night.”
Tony walks up behind him and rubs his shoulders, moving his thumbs in circles over the tired muscles. “Bruce, darling, you know you need to sleep sometimes. You also need to actually look through your glasses.”
“You cannot lecture me about sleeping, Tony,” Bruce replies, but there’s no heat in it, with his head drooping down and his body flopping back into Tony’s touch.
“Au contraire, mon fr è re, I absolutely can. Yours truly got a solid seven hours of sleep, and I’m raring to go on this fine morning - take a cat nap, it’ll make more sense when you come back.”
“This is suspicious behaviour. I am suspicious,” Bruce mutters half-heartedly, turning towards the door.
“That’s it, I’ll kindly overlook your aspersions on my character since you’re obviously not thinking straight.” Hands still on his shoulder, Tony gently guides his sleepy friend through the room and out the door, towards the elevator. “Hey, while I have you, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, Tony. As long as it doesn’t involve any higher levels of thought,” he scrunches his face up in distress at the idea of thinking. “Shoot.”
“How do you like the tower?” Tony asks, putting on his best hostess-with-the-mostest voice. “Everything to your liking? Anything you’d want to change?”
Bruce frowns, turning to look Tony in the face. “The tower? Your tower is great, Tony, everything’s fine.”
“There’s nothing?” Tony persists.
“No complaints.” Bruce states. The elevator doors slide open (thank you, JARVIS), and he walks in, keeping his hand between the doors so it doesn’t close immediately. “Is everything okay? You don’t want to move us all out to Malibu again, do you? You know I couldn’t take the stress of living in that glass monstrosity you call a house.”
“It’s a delightful house, you take that back. The architecture won so many awards,” Tony retorts on auto-pilot. “But nah, Steve wouldn’t leave New York, don’t you worry your pretty little head. Just doing my duty as landlord, making sure everything’s tip-top.”
“Steve would absolutely move if you asked, dumbass,” Bruce smiles, warmth in his worn grin. “But I’m glad. Some of us like having solid foundations underneath us, instead of just air and then the sea.”
Tony scoffs as Bruce lets the doors close, and he loves this, how easy it is. He’s going soft, he thinks, having them all here within arm’s reach - the idea of going back to Malibu alone, the place that used to be home, leaves him cold and uneasy.
*
Thor is a pretty chill housemate, if somewhat unreliable. When he’s not back on Asgard, he spends a lot of time travelling with Jane, learning more about Earth and helping her research (although Tony is somewhat doubtful about how helpful the god of thunder would be for running transdimensional physics experiments). He regularly comes by the tower, though, and invariably brings new tales of his exploits in New Mexico, or elsewhere. He brings an easy camaraderie to the team that Tony recognises from Rhodey talking about his airforce squadmates, or when Steve occasionally reminisces about the Howling Commandos; but with a genuine warmth and care underneath the blood and guts and battles, revealing a kindness that would probably make him a great king. Thor doesn’t seem in any hurry to go back to Asgard permanently and take up the throne, however, for which all of the Avengers are grateful.
It’s late in the afternoon when Tony emerges from the workshop, somewhat grease-stained but otherwise cheerful, to find Thor in the large communal living room. He’s dressed in his version of casual - plain t-shirt and jeans, trainers with lightning bolts on the side (Clint had been delighted to help him purchase those), and leather wrist guards, less showy than the ones that go with his armour, but still intricately carved with curved knots and symbols. He’s sitting on one of the huge sofas, chatting with Bruce and Clint, hands gesturing wildly and voice raised in excitement as he recalls his recent travels, and Jane’s latest accomplishments. He cuts off abruptly as he sees Tony emerge from the elevator, beaming.
“Tony Stark, my friend!” he strides over and scoops Tony up in a hug that lifts him off the ground. Honestly, if Tony were a lesser man he’d have some kind of complex about his size by now, between Steve and Thor and the Hulk. Luckily, he’s plenty sure about his own assets and how to use them.
“What’s up, big guy?” Tony laughs, clapping him on the back. “It’s good to see you!”
“And you, it has been too long!”
“It’s been like a month, Sparky, but we missed you too.” Tony shakes his head as he’s set back on the ground with care (the early days of their friendship had required several warnings about dropping people unexpectedly).
“Nevertheless, I always miss my shield-brethren when we are parted, even despite the joy of seeing my dear Jane, and Darcy and Eric, my true friends. Alas, it is the warrior’s burden, to have friends in many places!” Thor exlaims happily, returning to his seat on the couch.
Tony waves a greeting to Bruce and Clint as he walks past them, heading for the kitchen. Bruce looks less rumpled after his enforced naptime, and Clint quickly pesters Thor to continue the story he had been telling. Tony makes himself some coffee and rummages around the fridge for leftovers. Whenever Thor reappears, it's tradition that the team have a big dinner together, usually takeout - but Steve and Natasha are at some SHIELD meeting (definitely too boring for Tony to worry about), which meant they’d be waiting for another few hours at least. Tony’s a grazer by nature, with stashes of snacks throughout the house. A group of their size and necessary calorie-intake means that there’s pretty much always leftovers of some kind in the fridge too, and he strikes gold with some tinfoil-wrapped pizza that he throws in the microwave.
He’s sitting at the kitchen island chewing on his third slice of greasy goodness when Thor ambles in, opening the fridge and removing a collection of various cans of soda. Tony assumes that he’s gathering them for the others in the living room, but Thor just dumps them on the table and perches on a stool next to him, cracking a can and downing it in one long slug. Tony doesn’t recognise the branding, and the liquid is a suspiciously luminous orange. Thor sees his side-eye and grins.
“Darcy has introduced me to these drinks. She tells me that her student comrades enjoy them greatly, for they contain enough energy to see them through the mighty trials of college,” Thor explains as he crushes the can in his fist. Damn. Being surrounded by beings with super strength was both a blessing and a curse.
Tony blinks back to himself. “Some awful college-student brew? Be careful, even your stomach must have a breaking point.”
Thor laughs. “It will take more than such a small potion to befall me! Humans are no master brewers, and I doubt even the finest among you could match our Asgardian elixirs.”
“Well, rather you than me, buddy,” Tony sighs as Thor opens another can, this time with an electric-blue coloured liquid inside. It makes his teeth ache just looking at it.
“Is there anything here that compares to Asgard?” Tony queries, finishing the last slice of pizza.
Thor hums. “They are such different realms,” he says thoughtfully, “that comparison does neither justice.”
Tony sniggers. “You mean Asgard is infinitely better, but you’re too polite to say so.”
The Asgardian prince grins broadly, and honest to God winks at Tony. “My father has impressed the importance of diplomacy upon me. It would do me no good to offend my host, especially under his own roof and stars.”
“Oh sure, so you won’t say that Asgard is your favourite, but you’ll come here and eat all my food, I see how it is.” Tony leans back, scowling in mock indignance.
“I will claim no home as favourite over any other!” Thor declares. “Each place I lay my head has its own merit. Asgard does not have the Avengers, for example, and I miss you all when I am there, as I miss my warriors and family when I am here.”
“Yeah, divided loyalties, I get it,” Tony nods. Thor opens another drink and slides the can over to him. It’s red with yellow circles, and despite knowing that just smelling it will give him cavities, Tony is intrigued. He picks it up, scanning the ingredients - just some bright red ‘sparkling mixed fruit juice’, with a whole bunch of sweeteners. He takes a cautious sip and pulls a face at the artificial taste. Thor snorts beside him as he gulps from his can, clearly beyond sense and reason.
“Are you dissatisfied here, Tony?” he asks. “Your tower is a mighty structure, truly worthy of those who inhabit it.”
Tony preens a little, as he always does when someone compliments his baby. “Thanks, Thor. I love the tower, it’s a great tower - no, an excellent tower, I should know, I designed it to be. It’s just kinda mind-blowing that you would choose to come and stay here over a fucking palace, where you’re literally a prince and probably have servants to tuck you in bed and stroke your hair.”
“I have no need of servants to stroke my hair, when Natasha and Clint do so for no payment at all,” Thor replies warmly, his blue eyes kind. Tony forgets sometimes how old Thor is, how many people he’s known - how easy it must be for him to read them all. “I am here because I wish to be; as do we all.”
With that, he gets up, collecting his pile of crumpled cans. He reaches out to snag the red can still sitting in front of Tony, but he slaps Thor’s hand away, scooping it up protectively. Thor laughs again and walks away, leaving Tony with his sweet prize.
*
He’s in his en suite bathroom, shirtless, about to lather up his face to shave, when he glances in the mirror and notices her in the doorway behind him. He jumps the tiniest bit (he’s a superhero, give him some credit), but of course Natasha sees, smirking as she enters.
“Jesus, I have told you not to do that, I’m gonna put bells on your shoes -”
“I’d just walk on my hands,” she shrugs, and the worst part is, he knows she would.
“That’s weird,” he informs her, pointing at her reflection. “Walking in on me half naked and vulnerable is weird enough, but doing so while walking on your hands is intolerable. I won’t allow it, motion carried, it is now law.”
“Sure, Tony.” she replies indulgently. She’s dressed business-casual from her meetings at SHIELD - black trousers, black blazer, an oversized white shirt, black heels left neatly by the door. She removes the blazer, hanging it on one of the hooks on the wall, and rolls her sleeves up. Her hair has grown long again, almost as long as it was when he first met her as Natalie Rushman, and it falls loose over her shoulders, soft waves framing her face.
“Why does no one take my authority seriously, this is my tower, I’m your landlord -”
Natasha pushes his shoulders, maneuvering him around so he’s turned towards her. She pushes him back a step, assessing the light on his face (his bathroom lighting is excellent and Tony is more than prepared to inform her of this), before taking his expensive shaving cream and creating a lather in her hands. He trails off as she smooths it onto his face, over his cheeks and chin, deftly covering around his lips. Her hands are sure and precise. She rinses her them before reaching for his razor, and pauses, glaring at it in disdain.
“Tony, this is ridiculous. You might as well be shaving with a nail file.” Her voice drips contempt, although he doesn’t doubt that she could still use it with brutal efficiency if needed.
“Hey, not all of us need every item we own to double as a murder weapon! It’s always worked fine before,” he protests.
She raises an eyebrow, and places it back on the counter. She rummages in her jacket for a second, and returns to Tony with a straight razor from some hidden pocket.
“Tasha, I’ve seen Sweeney Todd, I would make a terrible pie,” he quips, his fear only half pretend. His mind flashes to the arc reactor, to unsterile scalpels and a mouth full of bloody rags. He’s never worn vulnerability well, but he’ll be damned if he’ll back down from his own body, in his own home; after all, Tony has a lifetime of practice at taking his flaws and making them shine.
“True,” she agrees, running the blade under the tap before taking his chin in her slender fingers, tilting his face to the perfect angle for her to glide the razor over his cheek. To her credit, he barely feels it, and she doesn’t hesitate as she ghosts across his face, outlining his goatee.
“Stay still,” she admonishes when he fidgets. “I’m informed that this face is worth a lot of money, and I’d hate to slip.” Despite her flat tone, Tony can see the glimmer of humour in her eyes, so she probably won’t deliberately give him a joker smile.
When she’s done, she rinses the razor, and Tony wipes his face down. While he puts on some moisturiser and a dab of aftershave, Natasha puts the blade back in its hiding spot (really, totally unnecessary), and walks through to his room. He follows, grabbing a fresh t-shirt before sitting next to her on his super-king sized bed. She turns her back to him, sitting cross-legged on the pale grey sheets, and he knows what to do without asking.
He reaches over to his bedside table and snags a hairbrush, rolling a hair tie off the handle and onto his wrist. He begins to run it slowly through her long red hair, thick and lush down her back. They sit in companionable silence for a while, the repetitive motions lulling Tony into relaxation. Natasha relaxes too, as much as she ever does - her breathing slows, her shoulders lose a little tension, she tilts her head back. She glances around at him once, a soft smile on her lips, and he smiles back.
“I hear you’ve been interrogating the team,” she comments as he’s beginning to form a braid, plaiting strands of hair together.
“Just doing a survey,” he replies mildly, concentrating on which goes over, which goes under. She’s never criticised him for doing her hair badly, but Tony doesn’t deal well with imperfection.
“Were you going to ask me?” Natasha’s voice is unconcerned.
“Wouldn’t be a complete survey otherwise,” he says. A few strands of hair come loose, and he brushes the braid out and starts again, being careful to remain gentle despite his frustration. “How do you like living here, Tasha?”
“I enjoy it,” she says immediately, with certainty, and something settles within Tony at her lack of hesitation. He begins the plait again, over and under.
“What brought this on? Clint told me to nail everything down in case you were throwing us out.”
“Clint should know that nails wouldn’t stop me kicking him to the kerb,” Tony replies. “It’s nothing, just something Steve said that got me thinking.”
Natasha’s silence is a comment in itself.
“He said…” Tony pauses, unsure what about the phrase made it stick in his mind so much. “He said I built us a home.”
Natasha makes a noise of acknowledgement, and he continues, deftly tucking strands of hair together. He’s at her shoulders, the pattern emerging down the back of her head and neck.
“I don’t know much about homes,” Natasha says, quiet and full of unspoken truths.
“No,” Tony agrees. “I don’t either, for what it’s worth.”
“It doesn’t matter, though. You know it when you feel it.” Her voice is steady and reliable, like she’s telling him the sky is blue, or Nick Fury is a bastard - a universal truth.
“I guess you do,” Tony replies, somewhat uselessly. He finally reaches the end of her hair and wraps the hair tie around the end of the braid. It’s a little messy, but it’s one of his better efforts, and it’s worth it for the satisfied look in Natasha’s eyes when she judges her reflection in the huge mirror over his bed.
“You’re improving,” she says matter-of-factly, as if she’s his teacher, not his teammate and friend. They both know better.
“Gotta get an A on my final,” he smirks, and she swats him over the head with the hairbrush (which he didn’t even notice her taking from his hand, Jesus, these super-spies).
*
The communal living room is filled with comfy chairs, art hung on the walls (chosen by Pepper and Steve), and personal knick-knacks that some would refer to as ‘mess’, but Tony thinks makes the place look lived in, in a very literal sense. He likes things to be modern and streamlined and efficient, but feels unexpectedly fond of the warmth of shared space - a mark on the wall where an enthusiastic games night had resulted in replastering, mismatched cushions because Natasha and Bruce are fiends who can’t help themselves when it comes to soft silky pillows, too many chairs squeezed into the one room because everyone likes to sprawl. It’s a far cry from the austere but luxurious lounges and day rooms of his youth - not an item out of place, not a fingerprint on the expensive glass coffee table.
The Avengers never assemble quietly, whether it’s to save the world or just have dinner. They pile in; Tony and Natasha down from his suite, Steve and Clint getting drinks from the kitchen, Thor chatting animatedly with Bruce about one of Jane’s latest presentations as they come out of the elevator. Once the take-out arrives, they arrange themselves around the massive TV screen, swapping food boxes (except Bruce, who defends his ruthlessly) and catching up on each others’ days. Tony lets it wash over him, a domesticity that he never sought out but had found him anyway.
Steve is sat next to him on the couch, working his way through several containers of Chinese food. Tony looks up at him - Steve Rogers, his childhood hero, his unreachable goal, his team leader, his partner. His side is pressed against Tony’s, angled towards him even as he joins the debate on what movie to watch. Tony knows that, whatever they decide on, he’ll murmur a soft commentary just for Steve - explaining references he might have missed, pointing out notable actors and telling stories from times Tony had met them, or just complaining about bad writing (which all of the group do, especially during fight scenes). He knows that Steve will glance at him quickly sometimes, eyes sparkling with amusement, and make his long-suffering heart go twice as fast as usual. He knows that later, they’ll go to bed. They’ll have sex, or they won’t, but either way he’ll fall asleep with Steve’s solid weight next to him, and wake up that way too.
Tony’s a genius. Knowledge is both everything and nothing to him; he’s so used to knowing so much that he barely feels it, even as he uses it. But he feels this, a certainty in the very centre of himself. He remembers Yinsen asking if he had a family, and he knows what his answer would be now.
“Hey,” Steve says quietly, nudging his shoulder. Tony blinks back to himself, realising he must have been staring. The others are used to it by now, though, and Steve’s voice is calm and unconcerned. “You with us, Tony?”
He grins, reaching to steal a spring roll. “No place I’d rather be.”